Date: Fri, 30 Mar 2012 05:48:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails- 6A
All the usual disclaimers apply:
+This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very
active imagination.
+Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do
so.
+Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are
represented. Do not read further if this offends you.
+Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot
accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story.
If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at:
hunterjoe45@yahoo.com
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Support Nifty! Joe
____________________________
BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 6A
(copyright 2012, Joe Hunter)
Baseball - the Great American Game, the national pastime... As much myth
and legend as it is sport... All over the country, every summer afternoon,
the kids come on their bikes or get dropped off by a parent for team
practice - and there they receive traditions handed down from coach to
player; the traditions and experiences that are the heart of baseball.
Not all the drama and great plays are in the major leagues. Some of the
most exciting are done by young boys on ragged diamonds with only a handful
of spectators to witness. Those exploits go unrecorded, yet I want to
believe that the diamonds themselves remember. The small fields and
sandlots... What stories they could tell if only we knew how to listen!
They might speak of a little second baseman's courage, taking a hot
grounder to the face and still making the play; or perhaps they would
describe the fear a young boy must overcome to stand in against fast
pitching when the game is on the line... The eternal challenge of
performance and competition...
I coach on the new field now; shiny aluminum stands, lights for night
games, spacious dugouts, grass kept green by a modern sprinkler system -
all the little extras. I'm not complaining. But on occasion, in the long
summer twilight when fireflies are dancing, I wander down to the old
baseball diamond and sit on a crumbling wooden bleacher staring out at the
pitcher's mound and the overgrown infield... Listening for the memories...
Waiting for the voices I once knew so well to come to me again out of the
darkness...
::::::::::::::::::::
Shortstop: Part A
::::::::::::::::::::
This is a story about young boys and baseball, but it starts at a High School football game...
On this cold autumn night, everyone in the big crowd jamming the stands of our High School football field is on their feet to witness the last moments of the final home game of the season. Down on the turf, under the lights, the teams are substituting players after the kickoff. Our opponents, up by four points after their touchdown, line up in red and white jerseys against our boys wearing their blue and gold home uniforms.
"Only 20 seconds left," my friend yells in my ear. "I don't think they can pull it out."
The people around us scream encouragement as our quarterback, a tall rangy kid, steps up to take the snap. An undefeated season and a chance at the state playoffs are on the line. My friend's wife, a fifth-grade teacher at one of the local schools, is jumping up and down in excitement next to me.
"Come on, Shane!" She shrieks. "You can do it!"
It has to be a pass and the other team knows it. Our quarterback drops back perfectly, looking for his receiver, but the pocket is collapsing around him. Husky defensive linemen converge on the tall graceful figure, yet he appears to slip past them without effort, eluding the grasping hands, and sprints through the opposing team angling for the sidelines, racing for more than 30 yards before being pushed out of bounds by a desperate safety.
The crowd around me screams its approval. My friend pounds my shoulder yelling, "Did you see that? Did you see it? They can't touch him. He's incredible!"
Less than 10 seconds left. Our boys line up on the other teams' 48. They need a miracle now, I am muttering to myself. The ball is snapped and the quarterback fades back. He looks downfield and then rolls to his left, freezing the opposing secondary as they anticipate another dazzling run. Suddenly a slim boy in blue and gold breaks free. The quarterback throws a long spiraling pass, floating perfectly into his hands and without missing a stride the slender receiver streaks downfield. With a deft fake he eludes the one defensive back that might have tackled him and runs into the end zone holding the ball above his head triumphantly as the gun sounds ending the game.
The crowd around me is going berserk. People are yelling, screaming, stomping their feet and jumping up and down, delirious with excitement. My friend's wife turns and hugs me.
"Shane and Sean," she yells into my ear. "Oh, those wonderful boys! They're just fantastic!"
My friend is pounding my back again. "Yeeeeeoooowwww," he whoops. "Shane throws the bomb to Sean! How many times have we seen them do it? When the chips are down, you go with what got you there!"
His wife lets me go and embraces her husband. He kisses her enthusiastically and then says, "Boy oh boy, State Finals next! Those two kids have got them there. Man, it's been a long time since we were in the playoffs! Aren't those two the greatest?"
"I think it's so nice they're such good friends," his wife tells us.
"Practically inseparable, the coach tells me." My friend says. "This championship may be their last game together, though. Shane's going to State next year and Sean's only a junior."
"It'll be hard on them, I think," his wife agrees. "How long have they been playing together, now?"
"Oh, since Junior High," my friend says. "At least that long." He turns to me. "Didn't they both play for you once?"
I look at him for a moment and then give him a little smile, nodding. "A long time ago. It was baseball then, not football."
"Some of our best athletes have gotten their start with you," his wife tells me, patting my arm.
Everyone around us is talking excitedly and my friends turn away to greet another couple. Un-noticed I slip away and wander down to the edge of the field, pushing through the excited throng. Players, coaches, parents, fans and excited children are milling around, celebrating and talking.
Over by the team benches a dense crowd of people has gathered and in the middle, surrounded by a squealing group of admiring cheerleaders, I see two boys in blue and gold jerseys. The taller one, a well-built handsome kid with unruly dirty blonde hair has his arm around the other, a more slender boy who is half a head shorter. They are both talking and laughing with the girls around them.
I stand for a moment, watching them. The older one, looking out over the heads nearby catches sight of me, his eyes flash recognition and he smiles and nods. I give him a thumb's up sign and nod back with a grin. The boy says something to the shorter lad next to him who looks up and they both give me a little wave. I smile, nod again and then walk away.
I take my time strolling back across the field through the crowd. It is
very cold and I pull my down jacket closer around me, closing the collar.
My old Blazer is parked way behind the school in a dark lot. The engine is
cold and it starts reluctantly. Shivering, I let it warm up, and while
waiting for the heat I switch on the dome light to look at a faint mark on
the worn fabric of the passenger seat, rubbing my finger over it slowly,
remembering, remembering...
With the heater on full blast I drive out of the lot, but instead of
heading straight home I go a bit out of my way down a dirt side street at
the edge of town, stopping in another dark parking lot. I switch off the
Blazer's headlights and got out, leaving the motor running. The two
baseball diamonds on the corners of the lot look empty and forlorn in the
cold night, their outlines barely visible in the dim lights from town. On
the 11 and 12 field the base paths show palely between the dead grass of
the infield and outfield. I try to reach for summer memories, but the
night is too cold. At this time of the year summer seems lifetimes away
and baseball as remote as the craters of the moon.
I sigh and go back to my warm vehicle. I am assisting at a wrestling meet
in the morning and it is time to be thinking of bed.
When I get home, I make a cup of hot chocolate and take it into the spare
bedroom. There is a box at the back of the closet with a stack of baseball
scorebooks from seasons long past and I dig down through the stack,
eventually finding the one I want. It is dog-eared and some of the pages
inside still have infield dust on them. I take the scorebook and my hot
chocolate into the dim living room, sit in my comfortable chair and switch
on the reading light. After a sip of chocolate I leaf through the old
scorebook seeing names I have not thought of for a long time.
A color snapshot falls out, a Polaroid, and suddenly my summer memories are
there, crowding into my mind amid a flood of recollection. I lean back and
close my eyes, thinking of a time nearly seven years before when my Blazer
was new and the world different...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I think we should try for this kid," my assistant whispered.
We were at the spring baseball tryouts watching a well-built 11-year-old
with long unruly blond hair field ground balls. He was a slim rangy
looking kid, a little above average height. His fielding was not very
expert, but the moves were quick and graceful.
"Yeah," I whispered back, taking a quick glance around. We were the only
ones taking an interest in the boy. I searched my memory. "He didn't play
nine and ten coach pitch, did he?"
My assistant shook his head. "Nah. Ranch kid. Lot of them don't.
Parents have trouble getting' `em into town for practice."
"How do we know he'll come for our practices?"
"I know his oldest brother. I'll check into it."
After watching the boy a bit longer I got out my notebook. "Let's hope no
one else spots him. The kid's a natural. What's his name?"
"Shane," my assistant told me.
Shane turned out to be my second round pick in the draft that year. I was
choosing third out of six and my first round selection was a little pitcher
I felt we had to have. I sweated out the next five choices before it got
around to me again and I was able to take Shane. Apparently only my
assistant and I had seen his talent.
But there was a footnote to our draft selection. It turned out that my
assistant's wife, a volunteer school aide, knew the boy and she chuckled
when I came in for a cup of coffee after the meeting and handed her our
list.
"You fellows drafted Shane? You better be prepared for little girl fans
screaming in the bleachers at your games."
I half-choked on a swallow of coffee. "How's that?"
"You don't know?" She grinned at the both of us. "You guys have just
drafted the heart throb of the elementary school. Every fifth-grade girl
in town is in love with this boy."
"Oh, come on Honey," my young assistant told her, "Kids that age aren't
interested in stuff like that."
His pretty wife laughed. "Boy are you out of it, lover!" She poured a
coffee for herself. "They start dating at nine these days!"
The poor guy looked anxiously at the playpen where his one-year-old
daughter was gurgling happily. "Ours better not do that!"
His wife chuckled again and kissed him. "Good luck, dad!"
Draft picks can be unpredictable, but this time ours were all good, and
none more so than Shane. He was everything we thought he would be and by
the end of the season more than one coach was probably wondering why they
had not chosen him.
I did not get to know Shane too well that first year. He was shy with
adults until he knew them well, and except for practice and games I never
saw him. He lived miles out of town on his father's ranch, but our fears
of his not being able to get to practice turned out to be unfounded.
Someone, either one of his married sisters or an older brother, would
always drive him into town and then pick him back up.
In the few chances I had to talk with Shane he struck me as a rather lonely
kid. Despite the popularity at school he only had a few close friends, one
of them the boy who played first base for us. I discovered that he was by
far the youngest of his large family. All his sisters and brothers were
nine or ten years older than he was, and his parents had both been in their
40s when he was born. Living on the ranch, the only child on that big
place, it had apparently been difficult for him because it was clear that
he enjoyed coming into town for our practices and games with boys his own
age.
My assistant's wife's prediction about the girl fans proved accurate. They
were at every game and we even had a couple show up once at practice - to
Shane's total embarrassment. Shane's parents never attended any games, but
his older brothers did and they regarded the girl friend business as
wonderful entertainment. They teased Shane unmercifully and often used the
pretext of 'giving the girls a ride home' to drive off at the end of the
day with Shane in the back of the truck, girls on every side and another on
his lap.
The other boys on our team, and around the league generally, were convinced
that Shane was the biggest stud their age in town. I was convinced myself,
and I was also sure that Shane was one of the best natural athletes I had
ever coached. As both my assistant and I worked with him, his fielding and
hitting improved enormously. Within weeks he was starting for us at
shortstop and center field; difficult positions for an 11-year-old to play
and humiliating for the 12-year-olds he displaced. By the end of the
season he was doing some pitching as well and had hit eleven home runs.
Every time he came to bat there would be squeals from little girls in the
stands, and at the end of the game a few would always be waiting just
outside the dugout.
In our final game, the Championship Playoff, Shane scored the winning run
with a walk-off homer into the parking lot. Everyone went to Pizza Hut
afterwards and later, when the celebration was over. I watched Shane go off
in the back of his brother's pickup surrounded by excited girls. What a
future that kid has, I thought, smiling and shaking my head.
A few weeks later, on a Saturday morning, I was puttering around the
apartment when there came a knock at the door. To my surprise it was
Shane. He had on tight jeans, a cowboy shirt and a ten-gallon hat. In his
hand was a brown paper bag.
"Hey, Shane!" I exclaimed delightedly. "Come on in. What's goin' on?
You want a soda?"
The boy smiled shyly. "I can't stay, Coach. My brother's waitin' in the
truck. We're goin' up to the fairgrounds to practice for the rodeo."
He handed me the paper bag. "This is for you."
I looked at him in surprise and took the bag. Inside was another, smaller,
bag and four perfect ripe tomatoes. Each one had been polished until it
gleaned.
"They're from my 4H garden," Shane told me proudly. "I just picked `em
this morning. I grew `em myself!"
I was touched, and momentarily at a loss for words. "These are wonderful,
Shane. Thank you very much."
Putting the tomatoes down carefully I opened the smaller bag and caught my
breath as I pulled out a beautiful hand-woven leather belt.
"I made it myself," Shane said anxiously. "I hope you like it..."
"Shane, this is.... This is lovely." My voice was husky with emotion and
I had to blink a few times. I put my hand on the boy's solid little
shoulder and squeezed. "I don't know what to say... Thank you. Thank you
very much."
I was a bit hesitant about touching him because during the season my
impression had been that he did not care for it. But here, alone with me,
he seemed not to mind.
"I really liked being on the team this summer, Coach," the boy said. "An'
I really appreciate you taking the time to coach me an' everything."
I had to blink again. "Shane," I told him with a fond smile, "Coaching you
was a pleasure. I just think you're the greatest kid..."
I had to stop for a moment and brush my eyes once more. Then I patted his
shoulder again. "Hey? You're gonna' play for me again next year, aren't
you?"
The boy smiled and nodded.
"Well, be careful in that damn rodeo," I told him. "Don't mess yourself
up. I need you next year. You're my best player. OK?"
This appeared to amuse him and he giggled. "I'll be careful, Coach."
"And don't wear yourself out with all those girls!" I teased, intending it
as a mild little compliment, but Shane blushed and looked away, almost as
if I had said something hurtful.
"Come on, Coach..."
I squeezed his shoulder again, the rounded muscle firm under his cotton
rodeo shirt. "I'm just kidding `cause I like you, Shane," I told him
kindly. "You know that."
The boy smiled at me and nodded.
"Thank you very much for the tomatoes and the belt, Shane. And listen to
me, son. Coaching you wasn't just a pleasure for me - it was a privilege.
I'm comin' to that rodeo, and I'll be in the stands rooting for you. Bet
on it. And don't you dare get hurt or I'll kill you!"
This brought forth another happy giggle and I hugged his sturdy shoulders.
I did go to the rodeo that year, and I rooted for him; and I know he
appreciated it because he came up to my seat a few times to talk with me.
At the end I said, "Next Spring I'll have special preseason practices for
our pitchers after school. You think you can arrange things so you can
come?"
"I think so," Shane told me. "I'd like t' come."
"You'll be our regular shortstop next year, but you'll be doing some
pitching, too. I'll call you."
He grinned and nodded.
I did not see Shane that winter. As always I helped coach swimming and
wrestling, but he was not in those programs. I enjoyed working with the
kids in those sports, but baseball was my real love and it seemed as if May
would never arrive. But it finally did. Snow was still on the ground when
I called Shane and gave him the date of our first preseason meeting.
I had a wooden frame with a canvas backstop in the garage so my pitchers
could meet two or three times a week after school in the preseason and get
their arms in shape for the summer campaign. I was delighted when Shane
turned up with the rest of the boys.
"If there's any problem with a ride home," I assured him, "I can drive
you."
"My big brother is picking me up," Shane told me.
I was even more pleased with the way Shane had grown over the past eight
months. He was 12 now and getting that leggy coltish look boys acquire
when their growth spurt begins. He was still a little above average
height, still slender and solidly built, and there was that indefinable
rangy look all good ballplayers have. The past winter had added some
breadth to the shoulders and he could throw the ball a lot harder. I
watched him hum a fastball into my canvas backstop with enough zip to make
the heavy cloth go 'Whop!'
"Your pitching's gonna' be a lot better this year!" I told him admiringly.
The boy treated me to his shy grin.
I soon learned that Shane was still just as popular at school. Girls were
always showing up at our sessions to watch him pitch and although I could
tell he was a little embarrassed by their company, he handled it well.
His older brother, when he came to pick Shane up, loved making a big deal
of it. "Sorry girls," he'd say with a leering grin, "The little stud has
to go home now, but you can ride, too." Then the girls would jump,
squealing, into the back where Shane would have to make room for them.
Another person that often came to the pitching sessions was Shane's friend
the first baseman. This boy was a lefty and I had already tried him at
pitcher, but he was not able to throw well enough to do it, although he was
an excellent ball player in all other ways. On the days when he came with
Shane he would do the pitching drills just for the fun of it, but mostly he
would sit and watch, keeping Shane company.
It was from these two that I first heard about Sean.
"Coach," Shane told me, "There's this kid that lives in the trailer next to
my brother's. I think you should draft him."
"How old is he? You sure he's signed up? Has he played before?"
Shane nodded. "Yeah, he's signed up. He told me. He's played before, but
not around here. They're new. He's 11."
"How do you know he's any good?"
"I played with him a few times. He really is good, Coach."
"I've seen him, too, Coach," my first baseman said. "He's good."
"And he's a nice kid, too, Coach," Shane added. "You'd like him."
"Well, OK," I conceded. "If you guys want him that bad, I'll try. We'll
make him a sleeper."
The two boys looked at me, not understanding.
"It's like this," I told them. "First - you don't tell anyone else about
this kid. Not even other people on our team. Got it?"
They both nodded.
"Second," I said, ticking it off on my fingers, "You don't let him play
anymore ball where someone could see him. You'd be amazed how many spies
there are. Third - in tryouts next week he plays off. When they hit him a
fly ball he misses it, or drops it. He makes like he can't throw from
center field to second base. If a grounder comes his way, it goes under
his glove. When he bats, he swings like a girl. Right?"
Both boys grinned and my first baseman held out a fist for me to tap.
"Yeah, Coach. We got it."
"I'll tell him," Shane assured me.
"This'll be fun," I told them, rubbing my hands together. "Now until those
tryouts next week, just don't say a word about this kid."
Two days later, Saturday, I was cleaning up in the kitchen when my door
buzzer rang. I opened up and was surprised to see Shane dressed in old
shorts and a T-shirt.
"Hey!" I said happily. "C'mon in. What's up?"
"Coach, my bike's messed up," Shane told me, looking up shyly. "Can you
help me?"
"Sure. I didn't know you had a bike."
"It's my brother's old one. I'm stayin' with him. I asked my folks if I
could spend Saturday's in town until summer's over and they said yes."
"All right!" I said. "Let's see this bike."
We went down to my garage and he wheeled in an old three speed. The chain
was loose on the sprocket and one of the caliber brakes was almost off.
"OK, this is fixable," I assured the boy. "Let me show you..."
I got my tools out and we adjusted the chain and then I fixed his brake,
which turned out to be the hard job. The mounting hardware was stripped so
I hunted in my spare parts supply for new bolts and taught Shane how to
re-tap the threads on his caliber. Finally we got everything straightened
out.
"Now let's grease this," I told Shane. We got out my little grease gun and
lubed all his fittings. Then we oiled a few spots, sanded down a rusty
place and covered it with primer.
Shane gazed happily at the result. "Thanks, Coach," he told me gratefully.
He seemed very comfortable and content with me and obviously was not in a
hurry to go anywhere.
"How 'bout some lunch?" I suggested and the boy's face lit up.
"Yeah!"
We got into my new four-wheel-drive Blazer and as we were backing out of
the driveway Shane looked around and touched the dashboard with his hand.
"This is a really nice vehicle, Coach. You had this last year, didn't
you?"
"Yeah, that's when I bought it," I told him with a grin. "It's not quite a
year old."
"It still looks brand-new," Shane said.
We drove to a fast food place for burgers and cokes, and I noticed that
Shane had the usual 12-year-old appetite. Two whoppers were down before we
made it back home and he sat on the passenger seat sipping happily on his
Coke.
I pulled into the garage and Shane opened his door. As he started to get
out the drink slipped out of his hand and Coca-Cola went all over a front
corner of the seat and his shorts.
The boy gave a little bleat of despair, looking up at me horror stricken.
"Coach! I'm sorry! I'm really sorry!"
Backing out in desperation he began wiping his hands on the seat
frantically, trying to get the soda off the fabric.
"Whoa, take it easy," I told him gently. I got out on my side and walked
around to where he was leaning in pawing at the seat. He seemed almost
hysterical and when I took him gently by the shoulders, pulling him back,
he was trembling.
"Coach, I didn't mean to. I didn't," he babbled. "I cleaned it up for
you. It just slipped..."
"Hey, hey, whoa, it's OK." I turned him around and held him loosely against
me. The boy's heart was pounding in his chest.
"Shane, it's OK," I soothed. "It's just Coca-Cola and a few ice cubes.
I'm not mad at you. Everything's fine. Now take it easy."
I stroked his firm tapering little back, feeling the smooth skin under his
thin cotton shirt. My hand slid up and down and then patted his hard
rounded butt. The boy put his arms around my waist and as I hugged him a
little harder his heart slowed and he stopped trembling.
"That's better," I said softly. "Now listen to me. I'm not mad at you. I
was 12 once and I used to spill things, too. Plus, you're the best player
on my baseball team. How can I get mad at you?" Stroking him some more I
gave him another little hug. "And... In case you haven't noticed, I
happen to think that you're the greatest, most wonderful kid in the entire
world. If you took this car and ran it off a cliff I wouldn't get mad at
you!"
Shane gave a tiny little laugh at that. I released him from my hug and
took him over to look in the car door.
"Shane, this is just a car. That's all it is. It's meant to have dusty
old baseball equipment bags thrown in it, and lots of boys with dirty
sweaty baseball uniforms sitting in the seats going for a pizza after
winning a close game. A little coke and ice isn't going to break it."
I knelt down next to him, ruffled his long blonde hair and then stared into
his blue eyes. "You know who are you?" I asked very seriously.
The boy shook his head. "I'm the dumb kid that just messed up your
vehicle," he said looking discouraged.
"No," I told him. "You're the most wonderful and precious thing in the
whole world. A human boy. Shane, you're more important to me than a
thousand, a million vehicles like this. You always will be."
He stared at me for a moment, thinking about what I'd said. I reached up
and touched my finger to his upturned nose. Then I stood up, put my hands
on both sides of his chest and lifted him off the floor while I tickled him
under his arms and the boy started laughing uncontrollably.
"Ah... Ah... OK... OK, Coach... I give," he begged.
I put him back on his feet. "Paper towels were invented for moments like
this," I told him. "Let's go get some."
We brought down a roll from the kitchen and blotted up his spill. The seat
fabric was stain resistant so cleanup was not too bad.
"I think we got most of it," Shane told me hopefully.
"We did," I assured him. "I suspect there might always be a little spot
right here on the corner. But, you know, I think that's kind of a good
thing. I'm going to call it Shane's mark. And every time I see it I'll
think of you - and that's a very good thing." I put my arm around the
boy's shoulders. "Now, do you know how to change the oil on one of these
things?"
"No," Shane said. He shook his head.
"Then it's time you learned. It's something every boy should know how to
do. In return for my teaching you, you may have the privilege of handing
me the tools. The first step is to drain the sump. Let's get underneath
this thing."
I had him slide under the blazer with me and we got started. Shane spent
the rest of the day with me in happy contentment.
We had our final preseason meetings that week, and then on Saturday morning
Shane and his friend the first baseman accompanied me to tryouts.
"When we get there, don't talk to this kid that you know," I warned them.
"And don't point at him. Someone will notice."
We parked and walked over to the fence. The field was crowded with dozens
of 11-year-olds running around excitedly.
"That's him, Coach," Shane whispered. "The one in the blue shirt by second
base."
I looked and saw a slender, towheaded boy with a delicate face.
"Are you sure he's good?" I said doubtfully.
"He is, Coach," Shane assured me.
Beside him the first baseman nodded. "For sure."
After watching for a while I could see what the boys had been telling me.
The little kid was deliberately playing badly, but he could not disguise
the way he moved. He had the look of an athlete and I glanced around
hoping no one else had noticed it.
"OK," I said quietly and made a note on my clipboard, "I'm sold. I'll try
to get him."
We stayed for the rest of the tryouts and then I took the two boys bowling.
Shane had never done it before but he was a natural in any sport and
learned quickly. I could tell that he enjoyed himself. Some girls came
over to watch while we were playing and I gave the boys some money so they
could take them to the snack bar.
On our way back to his brother's trailer where I was going to drop the boys
off I said, "Tell that kid, Sean, I'll draft him unless someone else gets
him first. I'm picking in fourth position this time."
Shane nodded. "I'll tell him. We got practice next Saturday, don't we
Coach?"
"Yep. Every Saturday from now on."
He hesitated for a moment and then asked shyly, ""You gonna' like be around
after?"
I smiled. "Yeah, probably."
After another little pause the boy looked up. "Thanks for teaching me
bowling, Coach."
"Anytime," I told him, patting his arm.
Monday night at the draft meeting I picked Sean second. I probably could
have waited for a later round, no one had noticed him, but I was afraid to
take the chance. Something told me he was going to be good.
We had our first team practice the next day and I found that my instincts
had proved right again. Sean was a fine little ball player. He could
throw and catch well, and his hitting was solid for a little kid. I was
very pleased.
"You guys may have great careers ahead of you as major league scouts," I
told Shane and his friend.
I noticed that Sean stuck close to the two boys. He was almost painfully
shy and it took some time before he got comfortable with the other kids.
When I started making up my lineups I penciled his name in at second base.
Shane was my obvious choice for shortstop, with occasional innings as
pitcher, and at second base Sean would be right between his two older
friends.
At our practices the three boys quickly fell into a routine. Shane and the
first baseman always warmed up with Sean using a little routine they had
invented themselves called 'double play scrambles' which they played at
every opportunity.
"We're gonna' to try for a complete set of double plays this season,
Coach," Shane announced to me.
"Yeah," the first baseman grinned. "A 6-4-3, a 4-6-3, a 3-6-3..."
"Or a 3-4-3," I added enthusiastically. "That's a great idea! I'll tell
'ya what, guys. You get a complete set - I'll take all three of you to
Outback for all the steak and ice cream you can eat. And to the arcade for
all the video games you wanna' play. On me! How's that?"
"Awesome!" Shane and his friend said together. Little Sean just grinned.
"OK," I told them. "It's a deal. Let's see you do it!"
I often set goals and rewards like this for the kids; they all enjoyed it
and it added excitement to the games. I hoped the boys could make their
set of double plays, but I suspected they would find it difficult. In
Little League there was no leading off, runners were not allowed to leave a
base until a pitch crossed the plate, but even so double plays were
exceptionally rare because our diamond was set up with short base paths
dimensioned to fit the stature and throwing ability of our young players.
It would take exceptional skill to get twin killings under those
conditions.
Shane got into the habit of spending every Saturday with me, doing it in a
rather covert manner. At practice he was exactly the same as he had been
the previous year, making no attempt to be close to me or to seek out my
special attention. At the end of Saturday morning practice he would
disappear on his bike or get a ride from someone just like all the other
boys. But a few minutes after I got home from the field, sometimes even
before I had the equipment bags out of the Blazer, he would come riding up
alone on his bike.
"Hi, Coach," he would always say, as if he had not seen me all morning.
"Are you doing anything today?"
I found lots of things for us to do. I bought parts for his bike and we
fixed it up better than new. Sometimes we worked on my Blazer. Shane
particularly liked taking it to a do-it-yourself car wash and cleaning it.
There was something about the cleaning and polishing that he enjoyed.
Afterwards, I always let him drive it. We went out on deserted back roads
and I put a pillow on the driver's seat so he would be high enough to see
over the wheel and then we would move the seat up all the way to where he
could just reach the pedals. He would spend an hour or so driving around
having a marvelous time and feeling very proud of himself.
I usually took him to the batting cage for an hour or so. His hitting had
always been good and now it improved even more. His swing was nice to
watch, fluid and unforced, and he never seemed to be trying too hard, but
the ball would fly off his bat.
At team practice Shane, the first baseman and Sean kept working on double
plays. The younger boy thrived on the attention of his two older friends
and his shy little personality bloomed like a flower. He obviously liked
both of them, but he was particularly attracted to Shane, imitating
everything he did. As the weather got warmer Shane liked to practice in
just his Nikes and a pair of satin gym shorts. Sean showed up the next day
with an almost identical set of shorts and took his shirt off the moment
Shane did.
The two boys made an interesting contrast. Sean was very slender, his body
delicately and beautifully proportioned with the smooth rounded muscles of
a dancer or a swimmer. Shane, half a head taller, was the more rugged of
the two. His muscles were all sharply defined and the proportions of his
body were slightly off because of his growth in the legs. There was that
rangy look of compact power all really good ballplayers have and when he
released the ball in a hard throw, or took a swing at a pitch his
developing muscles would stand out like an anatomical drawing.
Our first week of games arrived and we played on Tuesday and Thursday
evenings. We won the first easily, although its innings were marred by a
lot of sloppy play on both sides - a case of opening night jitters for all
the boys.
I had to solve the usual last-minute problems of uniforms that did not fit
perfectly and Sean's pants were a particular disaster, far too big on him,
ballooning around his hips and waist.
"You've got to have your mom fix those for you," I told him sternly as I
tightened him up with the safety pins I always carried for such
emergencies. "You can't get double plays if your pants keep falling down
around your ankles."
Sean giggled at this and so did Shane and the first baseman who were
interested spectators of my crude tailoring. "Shane," I said, "Will you
please see to it that these pants get fixed right?"
"Yes, Coach," the boy promised.
After little Sean was pinned securely and back on the field warming up
Shane whispered, "I'll have my sister-in-law fix them, Coach. Sean's mom
can't."
"Why not?"
Shane glanced around and then confided, "She's a drunk."
"Oh," I said uneasily. Well... Do what you have to do."
"I'll fix it, Coach," the boy assured me.
Shane arranged it somehow because at the next game, on Thursday, Sean's
uniform fit perfectly. And it was good that it did, because the boys had
their first chance at a double play in that game and if Sean's pants had
fallen down in the middle of it his humiliation would have made things a
lot worse than they turned out.
The play occurred in the third inning. We were down by a run and the other
team was threatening to score more. They had boys on first and second with
only one out and I was thinking how nice a double play would be when the
batter sent a ground ball right to Shane at shortstop.
Oh boy, I thought. Tailor made! Here we go!
Sean positioned himself on second, just as he had been taught, and Shane
flipped him the ball. The little boy caught it perfectly, making the first
half of the play, and now came the hard part.
In a 6-4-3 double play the second baseman has the key role. He must take
the feed from the shortstop and then pivot for the throw to first, doing
the whole tricky thing while avoiding an oncoming runner who is doing his
utmost to break up the play. This is a lot to ask of an 11-year-old ball
player. Sean turned, found the runner from first coming straight in, tried
to throw around him and the ball flew wide of my first baseman's
desperately extended glove, bouncing away to the fence. The runner slid
hard into second, knocked Sean down, and while all this was occurring the
runner who had been on second rounded third and went home to score.
Fortunately, our right fielder was able to get the wild throw picked up in
time to end the play.
"Time!" I yelled and trotted out to where Sean was lying on the ground.
Shane and the first-baseman were already with him by the time I got there.
Poor Sean was just devastated. The runner who had slid into him was a
chunky kid who had hit him pretty hard and Sean was dazed. His lower lip
quivered as he struggled not to cry. With a little hug I picked him up and
Shane patted his back while the first baseman dusted him off.
"That was a very, very good try, Sean," I told the shaking boy. "You
almost had a double play! You just missed by little bit. Making a throw
with the runner coming at you was the bravest thing I've ever seen. You
were terrific! A little more practice and you'll get that play. I'm so
proud of you! How `bout it, guys?"
"You did great, Sean," Shane told him, patting his shoulders.
"It wasn't your fault," the first baseman said. "I should `a had your
throw."
I could tell the boy was feeling better. "How we doin', Sean?" I asked,
knowing what the answer would be. "You wana' come out for a rest?"
There was an emphatic shake of the head. "Uh-uh, Coach!"
"There `ya go," I told him, giving his butt a pat.
"Take care of him," I told Shane as I turned to go back to the dugout.
Sean always sat with Shane in the dugout during games and he stayed very
close to him all through the rest of this one. Shane spent a long time
talking with him.
We ended up winning that game. I put Shane in to pitch for the last two
innings and he kept us out of trouble.
"On Saturday we'll work some on that double play," I told him after the
teams had shaken hands. "Meanwhile, I think your fan club is waiting."
A few girls were peeking around the end of the dugout.
"Oh no," Shane said, grimacing in embarrassment, but he went out to see
them and later, as I was cleaning up, packing the equipment, I saw him and
Sean with the girls over at the snack bar.
[ To Be Continued In Parts B thru K ]
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Hope you enjoyed it! This baseball series has a 'long' short story for
every position. Look for a new chapter or two each month.
Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment,
my e-mail address is:
hunterjoe45@yahoo.com
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limited. Rants and ravings will not get consideration.
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You can find links to all my other stories on Nifty under my name, Joe
Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list. To
get that list click the Authors tab at the top of the Nifty home page and
then select 'Prolific Authors'. I hope you will read and enjoy!
All the Best. Joe